


Back Where You Belong

by sleeprettydarling



Category: Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-16 20:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1360711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeprettydarling/pseuds/sleeprettydarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George can read him like a book, and he's not sure he likes what he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly AU, in that I've messed with the timeline a little, especially where Cynthia is concerned.

**October 1961**

There is a certain, all but imperceptible change between John and Paul in the days following their return from Paris. George thinks he wouldn't have noticed it at all if he hadn't always been so close to Paul. John is as unreadable as ever, mad as a hatter, truly, but Paul…

George can read him like a book, and he's not sure he likes what he sees.

He bites his lip in concentration and focuses on his guitar, plucking a few thoughtless chords. It keeps him from looking at Paul, who's looking at John, who looks like he can't be bothered. Maybe that's what's striking the nerve, what makes George's fingers sweaty enough to slip along the strings. Paul watches John with big doe eyes, laughing loudly at even the most halfhearted stabs at humor.

It's sad, really. Pathetic.

He strums out something that almost has a hint of a tune, a promising bit of melody, and John shoots him a look. "D'you mind?" John asks sharply. He's playing cards with Paul and Pete, huddled around a little table under the dim glow of a yellowish lamp, beer bottles and ashtrays cluttering up most of the playing space. It's five in the morning, and Paul lets out a loud, ringing laugh.

George huffs out an apology and leaves them to it.

 

**December 1961**

The first fight doesn't happen until Christmas Eve. George is sure they've fought many times before, knows they have, but this one – this one's different. They're all at Brian's house, a big Christmas party that would surely last well through the morning, given that the booze and cigarettes hold out. George is smoking one himself, lounged on a couch near the fireplace. A pretty bird is perched on the armrest beside him, smothering him with compliments.

They'd just finished up a show at the Cavern Club before heading to Brian's, and while George doesn't think he'll ever quite get used to the praise, or the following they were beginning to accumulate, he has something else on his mind. Namely, John and Paul, who disappeared a solid half hour ago – up the stairway, toward the bedrooms. Alone.

It's not what it seems, of course, but the sweat that had dried on the back of George's neck at the Cavern is once more trickling down his shirt. He feels uncomfortable, claustrophobic, and he excuses himself as politely as he can, shoving his half-empty beer bottle into the girl's hands as a consolation. It doesn't strike him as awkward until she raises a fine eyebrow in confusion.

"Sorry," he offers, embarrassed. "It's just – it's warm in here, innit?"

He doesn't give her a chance to respond before taking to the stairs. He's looking for a bathroom, he tells himself; needs to splash his face and maybe wring out his shirt. There's a toilet on the ground floor, of course, but it's likely occupied. He's just being civil, is all.

There's a bathroom at the top of the landing and George shuts himself in it, clutches the sink and stares into his reflection. His face betrays nothing. His hair is a little matted, stringy at the ends, but that's to be expected. He takes a breath to calm himself and turns on the water, and it's then that he hears something, a faint murmuring that sounds almost like Paul. George turns off the sink and listens.

 "– _acting like a damn bird, McCartney._ " That's John, plain as fucking day, voice drifting from the wall directly in front of him.

 " _It wouldn't kill you to act like this isn't a fucking burden, is all._ " George knows that tone well. It's Paul's last thread of calm before the storm, his attempt to remain reasonable when on the inside, he's a twisting torrent of emotions. George hasn't heard it since the time Paul got drunk and told him about his mother.

 " _Is that what you want, then? An act? Oh, I can give you an act, yes, Paulie darling dear–"_

_"John–"_

_"You're my one and only, so be a good lad and get on your knees_."

 There's a long instance of silence, or maybe George's heart has just stopped beating. He feels cold, suddenly, like a bucket of water had been dumped over his head. His throat's tight, and he has the vague fear he might vomit.

 It's just John, he rationalizes. It's just John, and John says mad things all the time; that doesn't make it true.

 _"I'm leaving.”_ That's Paul again, voice raw and quiet as if he'd been screaming.

  _"Mm, course you are. See you at band practice, then?"_

  _"No. Fuck the band, and fuck you. I'm leaving, John. I'm out."_

 _"You haven't got the nerve!"_ John's voice had risen to something near a yell. George quickly turns on the sink and, distantly, he hears the muffled sound of a door opening.  

 There's another prolonged silence, and then, " _Come on, Macca.”_

_"Goodbye, John."_

When the door slams, it's followed by the sounds of John cursing himself, throwing things, which isn't nearly as loud as the roaring static in George's mind. This time he does throw up, supporting himself on the sink with clammy, shivering hands. His fingers ache for his guitar, but what's the point?

 Still, as he huddles up in the bathtub and buries his head in his knees, his brain offers him soothing, unheard melodies, which he fingers out against his trousers.  

 ***

_"–a right drunk, he is! Passed out in the tub, poor lad!"_

George forces open bleary eyes. His neck and back are screaming in pain, tense from sleeping hunched over. Soft sunlight is filtering in through the window, and John is standing over him. From behind him, Paul emerges, a steaming cup of tea in hand.

"Here, George," he says tenderly. He ruffles George's hair. "Happy Christmas."

George's mouth hangs open, a million questions swirling through his mind, but all he can manage is a strained "ta, mate."

Paul rights himself and smiles back at John, who shrugs and offers a small smile in return.

 

**August 1962**

Having Ringo around permanently was something George had long been hoping for. They got on well. Though George has never wanted to mention it, the shows where Ringo filled in for Pete were always the most fun. He'd always stick around for drinks afterward, drum on the table with his silverware (or his fingers, when John inevitably confiscated the silver). He was all right, and George liked him, and the better part was that he seemed to like George, too.

Not that George had been looking to replace Paul, but – well. Paul had long ago replaced him, so it was about time he had someone to fill the void.

And fill the void Ringo has; fill it to overflowing, and then some. When they arrive in Birkenhead for the annual Port Sunlight Horticultural Society's show, it's George who suggests the room arrangements.

"I'll be sticking with Rings, if that's all right."

Paul looks at him in surprise. There might even be a little relief in his tone when he responds, "Yeah. All right."  

They're supposed to head out for dinner once they get settled, and for George, getting settled means little more than tossing his bag on the bed and changing his shirt. When he turns to leave, though, Ringo catches him by the arm.

"Is there something going on?" he asks lowly. At George's look of confusion, he adds. "Y'know. With Paul and John."

George laughs, waves it off. "There's always something going on there, mate. You'll get used to it." 

"No, I mean…" His droopy eyes widen, and he glances around – as if there were actually someone there to overhear. " _Y'know_." He thrusts his hips a little for emphasis, and George can't help but laugh. It's relief, mostly, but a part of him is worried – if Ringo can see it, it must be real. Must be obvious. And that's a problem.

 "Dunno," he says. "Sometimes I think so, but – not really. Can't be."

He finds himself telling Ringo about the Christmas party anyway, and everything before that, _Paris_. They're only interrupted when Paul bangs on the door, tells them to hurry up because the car is leaving.

Paul's in a foul mood throughout dinner, though John is chipper as ever, doing strange voices for the waitress and doodling on napkins. It's not until they finish their meals that John announces, casual as can be, "I'll be marrying Cyn when we get back to Liverpool."

Paul's jaw clenches, just barely noticeable, but enough. George feels Ringo's eyes on him in an instant, an undercurrent of panic flowing through him. No one's going to say anything, he can tell, so offers, "Congratulations, mate. Where's the ceremony?"

"No ceremony, I think. What's the point in them, anyway?"

"Makes the whole idea seem like less of a whim," Paul says shortly. He stands. "I'm not feeling well. I'll see you at the hotel." He doesn't address this to John, or any of them, really, glaring down at the scratched table. With that, he turns and leaves, leaving George and Ringo staring after him.

"Fussy little bint, he is," John says flippantly. "You'd almost think he isn't simply elated for me."

There's nothing else to say, and the silence hangs heavily around them.

"So lads," John says cheerfully. Oblivious or ignorant, George can't tell. "Dessert?"

***

 Paul isn't at the hotel. George waves Ringo away, because John is drunk and angry, and Ringo doesn't need to see him this way – not now.

 "C'mon, John," George urges. He has John's arm in his hands, pulling him toward the bed. "Sleep it off, all right? It's all right, c'mon."

 John, who had been fighting against him like a wild animal caught in a trap, goes still. "I deserve this," he moans. He collapses bodily into George, who staggers under the sudden weight, hooking his arms around John's waist and struggling to support him.

 "Come to bed, Johnny, come on."

 He manages, somehow, to tilt and angle them close enough to the bed to drop John on it, and he lands with something that's almost a sob. "I deserve this," he says again, vehemently, slamming his fist against the mattress.

 George perches next to him. He doesn't get too close, because it's only a matter of time before John snaps again, but he shouldn't be alone. "Deserve what?"

 "Being lonely."

 There's a million things George could say to that. He could tell John he's not alone, that he and Ringo are still here, and they can stay with him, if he'd like.

 But that's not what he means, and there's no sense in pretending.

 "Paul'll come 'round eventually. You know him."

 "Where is he, then?" John demands, angry again. He pushes himself up, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "He doesn't know Birmingham–"

 "Birkenhead."

 "–he could be – fuckin' daft tosser, wandering the fuck off. Oughta – oughta kill 'im meself." He's struggling out of bed now, all blind rage and drunkenness.

 "Well, you're no good to him now, are you?" George grabs at him, pulling him back down with ease. "He wouldn't go and get himself lost, you know that. Here–" he reaches for John's guitar, which had been left beside the bed. "Just sleep," he says, already strumming a soft tune. "He'll be back when you wake up."

 Whether it's a willful sleep or alcohol-induced unconsciousness that overtakes him, John's out within minutes. George sits with him for a few minutes longer, playing bits of the song that's been stuck in his head for months now, always just out of his grasp. _"You leave me feeling lonely_ ," he sings quietly, " _and_ _that's all that I deserve_." It doesn't feel quite right, but it's all he knows.

 In his sleep, John makes a satisfied grunt, and that's all George can hope for.

 

**September 1962**

It's their fourth run-through of 'Love Me Do', and suddenly it all feels too real – they're proper musicians now, doing things over and over in a fancy studio until they get it right. It's a bit more stressful than George ever thought it would be; it's getting to him, and he knows he's being short with people, cranky and ill-tempered. But it's nothing compared to the storm brewing in front of him.

John and Paul are sharing the mic, singing together as they always do, but rather than exchanging fond glances and quick giggles, they're tense, avoiding each others' gaze. There's an electric current flowing between them, filling the cramped studio with a heavy, volatile energy.

Their voices blend as they begin the chorus, and this take is good, George thinks. This will be the one – he can feel it. Whatever's going on between them now at least makes for good music, and that's all that really matters.

Then their eyes meet. George almost wants to make a sound, distract them, but it's too late – they're staring right into each other's eyes as they sing, " _You know I love you"_ – and Paul's voice carries a certain, wavering conviction – " _I'll always be true_."

It's there, however, that whatever tension's been building breaks, and Paul shoves the mic away with a snarled, "oh, fuck all!"

"The fuck, Paul?" John demands, setting aside his guitar. "Fuckin' lunatic, you are–"

He's cut off when Paul's fist connects solidly with his cheek. The fight doesn't last more than a few seconds, they're dragged away from each other before they can cause any real harm, but the damage has already been done – it's been in the works for nearly a year now. Paul's face is flushed, tears streaming from his eyes, and he's screaming things, and maybe he's incoherent or maybe George just doesn't want to hear. John is yelling back, telling him to fuck off, that he's out, and fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_.

They're sent outside to cool down, and George can't help but follow, doesn't trust them alone with each other. John and Paul are fighting again by the time he finds them, and he's not _hiding_ , exactly, but he doesn't make his presence known.

"The fuck was that, then? _The fuck_ , McCartney! Fucking bleedin' girl – I thought you cared about our image, what happened to that?"

"You can't–" Paul is shaking, hard enough for George to see from his vantage point. "You can't look in my eyes and _say_ that–"

"I'm not sayin' anything! It's the fuckin' song, is all!"

Paul jerks back as if he's been hit, and John watches him – frighteningly, detached, smoking with such calm it seemed almost surreal against Paul's ragged fury.

John sighs loudly, as if this whole thing were too much to handle. "What do you want, then? You want me to look into your eyes and tell you I love you? Because I _don't_."

"You don't," Paul repeats flatly, staring hard at the ground. "You think I don't know that?"

"Never have," John says. He offers Paul a cigarette, as if they were simply discussing lyrics instead of… whatever this is. Paul takes it eagerly, and John lights it up with a steady hand.

"I like you, though."

It's almost too quiet for George to hear, but the look on Paul's face tells him he didn't misunderstand.

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

John walks his fingers up Paul's arm, and George can see Paul trying to repress a smile, failing by the time John reaches his face. "And you like me. Don't you, Paulie?"

"'Course I do." Paul's tone betrays the fading smile on his face. "Like you too much, maybe."

John sighs, dropping his hand. "Nothing we can do about that, is there?" His voice is almost gentle now, soothing. "Can't let it get in the way of things."      

Paul nods silently. They stand there for a long moment, not quite touching, finishing their cigarettes in silence. George is about to leave them, because he sees Paul start to turn, but John catches his sleeve.

"I really do," John says, and a wavering smile breaks out on Paul's face.

"Yeah. Me too." His free hand creeps up to meet John's, which is still clutching his sleeve. Their fingers tangle, just for a moment, squeezing tight before releasing. "Let's go back inside."

 

**November 1962**

It's been smooth sailing for a solid two months now, ever since the incident at Abbey Road Studios. If George didn't know better, he'd say something had started between them. Something _real_ , something with a bit more substance than a quick fuck now and again (not that he thinks that's what they've been doing, but if that somehow _were_ the case, well – this was different).

Their fights are fewer and far between, little more than squabbles over a lyric or a pack of ciggies. They seem happier, too, though it's more noticeable with Paul. John – well, George can never quite tell if John's emotions are genuine or not. But now that Paul's smiling again, George realizes that he can't really remember the last time he'd seen Paul truly happy. It's a welcome change, and the band is all the better for it.

They're in Hamburg now, booked for a full two weeks at the Star Club (they've only just arrived, and Ringo's already joked one too many times that it's his club, you know, fellas are lucky he's allowing them in at all). The hotel rooms are small, one bed each, and Brian only booked two for them. Not much of a surprise, of course; they often share beds, and George has woken up quite frequently with his face pressed in Ringo's armpit, or lying on top of John.

As usual, they don't discuss room arrangements; they are what they've always been, and George is fine with that. The walls are paper thin, and he can hear the unknown occupants on the other side arguing. Ringo shrugs it off. "Could be worse," he says.

True enough; they've stayed in far worse places than this. It almost feels like they're moving up in the world.

It isn't until the small hours of the morning, when it's black as pitch outside, the streets silent and unoccupied, that George realizes that, no, it actually can't get any worse than this.

From the far wall – the side that John and Paul are staying on – he hears a sound, a moan almost, followed by a quiet " _Macca, please_." It only escalates from there, until he realizes that he's lying wide awake, listening to two of his best mates fuck each other senseless, the headboard banging dully against the wall, barely masking the sounds of their ragged breaths. There's no other explanation for it, no more excuses. When George rolls over in an attempt to ignore it, he finds Ringo staring right at him.

"You hear that?" Ringo whispers, as if it weren't ear-shattering.

 " _Shhh, oh Johnny, Johnny boy, I've got you, come here, come on,_ come on."

"Hear what?"   

There's a loud, broken moan that George wouldn't have believed could have come from John if he didn't have all the evidence staring him in the face. Ringo lifts an eyebrow.

 "Dunno. Must be rodents or something. In the walls. Y'know."

  _"Don't ever leave me. Paul, please_." George cringes – hearing John sound like that, so open and vulnerable, it feels like he's intruding, even if the situation can't be helped.

 _"Shh. I won't._ "

" _I'll follow you, you know. If you do._ "

 _"I won't. I – John, I really – I like you._ "

Paul's voice cracks toward the end, and somehow the words feel like a dagger, and George wishes he didn't have to hear this. Wishes John didn't have to hear it, wishes Paul didn't have to say it.

Love is love, isn't it? What's the harm?

" _And I like you, Paulie_."

There's a heavy silence, and George wonders if they're kissing, finds himself hoping they are. They deserve that much, at least.

 

**April 1963**

Paul had been depressed the day Cynthia announced she was pregnant, so George has been bracing himself for the worst as the due date grew nearer and nearer. The day Julian arrives, however, George feels like he's stepped into some kind of strange alternate reality. The whole band's there for it, of course; he, Paul, and Ringo waiting for a nurse to invite them in.

Cynthia is asleep when they enter. John holds the baby, who is clutching his finger. "Julian," John announces, quietly, and George casts a nervous glance at Paul.

He's smiling, wide and genuine, tears welling up in his eyes. He goes to John and embraces him, gently, Julian protected between their chests. Paul's fingers trace Julian's little ones, the ones holding onto John, then glides his hand down to clutch John's wrist.

For a moment, George almost believes that the baby is theirs, that somehow, someway, they did _something_ , and that this is the way the world is supposed to be. They look like a family, the three of them: John and Paul, their foreheads touching as they gaze down at Julian with love and pride.

It's Ringo who breaks the silence. "Congratulations, mates. Who carried him, then?"

The laughter that follows wakes Cynthia and John flits to her side, shattering the illusion, but George can't help but think that Julian is the luckiest child in the world. He gets a mom and a dad – everyone's entitled to that – but he gets a second father, too, one that loves him just as much. Because he's a part of John, and it's only now that George thinks he can see a glimpse of how deep that love truly goes.    

 

**September 1963**

They're in the basement of Jane Asher's house, George sitting in the corner strumming aimlessly on his guitar, playing the little bits of melody that still haunts him. He almost has something, he thinks, something that could be really good. Sometimes John will compliment him on it, ask him what it is, and every time George has to shrug and say "dunno."

One day, he hopes to have an answer. Sooner rather than later.

Ringo is beside him, tapping along a beat. John and Paul are across the room, sharing the piano bench, playing on it like children. George doesn't know how they get anything accomplished this way, but it's done them well so far. For now, though, it's like listening to auditory archaeology – he can tell they had _something_ , and they kept playing through it, over and over, dusting it off and revealing a little more each time.

" _Oh you_ ," John is muttering, singsong, " _Got that something_."

Paul's fingers skitter across a chord, and it's beautiful. George flattens his hand across the guitar strings, stopping the sound.

"That's it!" John says, triumphant. "Do that again!"

Paul plays it again, and John's smile is infectious. Their noses are nearly bumping as they play through again, John singing into Paul's lips, making up stupid words when the right ones haven't revealed themselves. Paul's giggling through the whole thing, looking into John's eyes with that open adoration that George hasn't seen since they returned from Paris.

When the music runs out, John's still singing, making up new words. " _And when I touch you I feel happy inside. It's such a feeling that, my love, I can't hide_."

Paul's face is bright pink when he looks away, banging out a fitting melody on the piano.

"Mm, that's good, innit?" John grins. He bumps his nose against Paul's cheek before turning his attention back to the piano. "Again."

***

They're fighting before they even finish the song. George wants to blame it on frayed nerves, or stress, or another simple lyric disagreement, but that's not it. They're fine until Jane comes down to check on them, bringing tea, draping herself across Paul's back and kissing his cheek, asking for a preview of what they've working on. Paul purrs under the attention, as he always does, and John slams on the keys, pushing himself to his feet.

"Can't we get a little fuckin' privacy?"

Paul pushes her away, but only just. "John, c'mon."

"This is _business_! D'you let people just wander in while you're practicing lines?" This he aims at Jane. "No? It's fuckin' unprofessional, innit? Fuckin' distracting! D'you want to write another little article, then? Write about the brand new Beatles hit by the dashing, talented, _darling_ Paul McCartney?"

"John, _stop it_." There's a warning edge to Paul's tone, and Jane is shaking her head in bafflement, her eyes wide and fearful.

George can't help himself – he crosses the room, takes Jane's arm. "Come on," he says, "you can't listen to him."

"Oh, right, don't listen to the raving lunatic!" John throws his teacup after them, and George feels it shatter against his heels, the hot liquid splashing up his trousers. "Don't worry your pretty little head!"

George leads her upstairs, grasping for words to explain.

"I didn't mean to upset him," she was saying, voice quivering, covering her face with her hands. "I didn't mean–"

"He's just like that sometimes. You can't let him get to you, you just–"

Paul is between them suddenly, taking Jane's hand, kissing it. "Come on," he says coldly. "We're leaving."

Jane follows him without a word, hurrying out of the house as if it were on fire. It might as well be, George thinks. He's not too eager to return to the basement himself, but he doesn't want to leave Ringo to straighten John out alone. Not that either of them will really be able to; that's always been Paul's job, and with good reason.

He crashes into John on the stairs, who shoves him out of the way with such force that he nearly falls down them.  

"Where did he go?" John demands. He hardly waits for an answer – not that George has one to provide – before he's pulling on his coat and shoving his way out the door. George can hear him yelling Paul's name, commanding him to come back, this instant, they still have work to do.

Ringo's standing helplessly in the middle of the basement, and George shrugs. "Might as well get some work done," he says, picking back up his guitar. "They'll come back eventually, won't they?"

Ringo carries the beat as George fumbles through his song, landing again and again on the line, " _'Cause you like me too much and I like you_."

"It's them, innit?" Ringo asks.

"Who else would it be?"

***

George doesn't know what time it is when John and Paul return. He and Ringo had given up playing hours ago, having dozed off somewhere along the way. He cracks an eye open, and the two of them are standing there, in the middle of the basement, holding hands. Or, rather, John is holding Paul's hands, and it isn't quite clear if Paul is reciprocating. Either way, he's not running off.

"I was wrong, all right?" John is saying. "What else d'you want from me?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe an apology?"

"I'm sorry."

"Not for me – for Jane."

John lets out a breath, pulling Paul's hands to his chest. "Why do you do this to me, Paul?"

Paul laughs, and it's bitter and cruel; broken. "Oh, so you're allowed to get married, have a fucking kid, but I can't even date anyone? Is that it? Am I just supposed to lonely until you decide to make time for me?"

John doesn't seem to have an answer for that. He's looking down, at their joined hands, until Paul finally relents.

"I just – I miss you," he says. "You're with Cyn and Julian all the time, and it feels – it's like I'm losing you, y'know? Like one day you'll just stop coming around, and that'll be it. You'll be a proper family man, and what'll I have?"

John barks out a laugh. "Fucking mad, you are. Me? A proper family man?" He makes a face, crossing his eyes and baring his teeth. Paul laughs a little with him, freeing a hand to wipe at his nose.

"I'll tell you something," John says softly, singsong. "I think you'll understand." He grabs for Paul's hand again, singing properly now, grinning like mad, swaying them. "When I say that something, I wanna hold your hand."

"John?" Paul asks quietly.

"Hm?"

"What is it? The _something_ , y'know."

"You really are daft, McCartney." He squeezes Paul's hands. His voice drops to barely a whisper, so much that George almost can't hear him. "Your hands are the ones I want to hold the most."

No insult, no clever little joke. He didn’t come right out and say it, but it’s not really in John to do so. But George knows, and they know — it’s “I love you,” as best as John can possibly put it.

Paul lets out a broken sound and presses his lips to John's. George lets his eyelids flutter closed, allowing them the privacy they deserve.

 

**January 1964**

It's going to be a big year, George can tell.

Maybe it's just the usual New Year optimism, but something feels right, like the whole world is theirs. Their New Year celebration is a quiet one, just the band, huddled up in a nice little hotel suite they had reserved for the occasion. A getaway was long overdue, and time alone was becoming a scarcity.

 As night bleeds into morning, George strums his guitar, playing over the chords that have become increasingly familiar to him over the past couple of years. John looks over to him from his place on the couch – Paul is sleeping against his side, cheek cushioned on his shoulder. They'd gotten drunk enough to allow the closeness, and George and Ringo have allowed them to pretend that it's nothing more than drunken clinging. It's worth it, George thinks, to see John so content.

 John juts his chin at him. "What is that, then?"

 George's fingers go still against the strings. "What?"

 "You've been working on it for over a year now, don't think I haven't noticed. Let's hear it."

 "Oh," George fumbles. "Well, it's not finished–"

 "That's all right. This is a team, innit? Collaboration and whatnot."

 So George plays it. It's broken up and incomplete, but the parts he knows are solid. His eyes keep cutting to John, waiting for the recognition, the anger. But his eyes are closed, a serene smile on his face, nodding in time.

 He doesn't say anything when it's over, and for a second, George thinks he's fallen asleep. And then, "It's good, son. Really something. Keep at it and I reckon we'll record it one day." John's barely awake, so it's not a promise that George expects him to keep, but still. Still.

 He smiles to himself and plays through it again, quietly, just humming the words. It's going to be a big year, and it's off to a perfect start already.


	2. Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing a fic writers ask game on Tumblr, and [someone asked](http://twinkjohn.tumblr.com/post/135332388505/38-39-and-40-for-back-where-you-belong-like-an) to see an alternate ending or scene for this fic. I was really unsure about it at first, but as I began writing, I kind of started to think this was the ending this fic needed all along. However, I decided to post it as a new chapter instead of just tacking it on to the original work, so it will be easy to disregard for those who prefer the original.

**17 February 1965**

George hadn't really expected to be allowed to record the song, even after John and Paul's repeated assurances.  They claimed to love it, thought it was poignant and real and everything a Beatles song should be.  George could only respond with stiff smiles and awkward thank yous, because he knew, at any moment, they would realize the connection.

But they didn't.

So now they're here, John at the piano and Paul on his bass, recording the song George had worked so hard on.  They're four takes in and John's starting to get a look on his face, one that makes George a little uncomfortable, makes his voice crack and waver.  When it's finally decided that they should take a break, Paul excuses himself with a little knowing look at John, one that means John is meant to follow him.  John nods in response, and he gets up and saunters over to George.

"Interesting song, this," John says, lighting up a cigarette.  Something about the way he says it, the way he emphasizes the word 'interesting', almost mocking—George's skin goes cold.  "How'd you come up with it?"

It's a question George had plenty of time to prepare for, but his mind is blank.  "Er—well…"

"I've been thinking about it, listening," John goes on.  He's looking at George in that way only he can, his eyes squinted and calculating, as if he can see right through him.  "And I thought, what does little Georgie know about this?  Doesn't have to worry about liking someone too much, does he?  No, he can just love them, and it's all right."

George thinks about denying it.  Thinks about telling John that he has no idea what he's talking about, that this is just a song about him and Pattie.  But John's not wrong.  They both know it. 

"It's all right for you, too," he says instead, and something in John's expression changes, softens.  "Doesn't matter who it is.  You can love them and no one will mind.  None of us, anyroad." 

John's mouth opens, snaps closed.  He looks toward the door Paul exited through, then back at George.  "It's a good song.  It'll be good on the album." 

He leaves after that, without a glance behind, and there's something big and grateful in George's chest.  He can only hope John feels half as good as he does, half as free.  He and Paul deserve that much.  


End file.
